


Hope is the Thing with Feathers

by SpaghettiCanActivist



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-03-01 14:09:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13296522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaghettiCanActivist/pseuds/SpaghettiCanActivist
Summary: In which Harold Finch is still a brilliant man, but doesn’t create the machine. Nathan Ingram’s death is unfortunate as is Harold’s injury, but it is not murder, just accident. Harold meets Grace but loses her, and now lives out his days in an old library few people frequent. John is a drunk and on the brink of suicide when he meets Finch. Chance draws them together and Life keeps them that way.Finch is a little sweeter in this one, less paranoid. John a little more turtle-like in coming out of his shell.





	1. The Albatrosses Around Their Necks

Chapter 1: The Albatrosses Around Their Necks

“A seagull...scarab of the sea, with wings spread--  
Parting its beak to greet  
Men long dead.”

-Marianne Moore, Talisman

 

 

Harold Finch let his eyes linger on the book cover, idly appreciating the patron’s taste.

“Mr. Alger’s unfailing stories of ‘rags-to-riches’ are scintillating indeed. It leaves one wondering at the strange circumstances of life, one can never know when a twist of fate will fall upon them,” he commented as he checked the book out.

The woman gave a nod and grabbed the book, her smile was genuine but her attitude was hurried. She grabbed her books and quickly left the library, leaving Finch once again alone in the empty space.

Finch’s lips twisted in a small wistful smile. So few people entered the archaic library, the weathered and old mason work too subtle and too quiet for the clamor of New York. Finch loved it, but it only ran because of the extensive funds from his work with Nathan. Letting out a soft sigh, Finch stood, and began to walk awkwardly toward the entrance. Winter was coming on and it was getting cold. At four in the evening he was ready to call it a day. He was tired and in more pain than usual. 

Opening the door, he shut it, carefully locking the ornate double doors. Turning, he was surprised to see a man curled up in the corner of the library’s platformed entry way. Harold glanced up at the sky, mouth turning down slightly in a frown at the thick clouds and the way the wind bit at him through his thick layers. 

The vagabond’s head came up and Harold held the blue eyes which seemed to pierce through everything despite the scraggled beard and overall unkempt appearance of the man. An understanding passed between them as Harold recognized desperation and apathy, mixed in the most incongruous of ways yet apparent in both of their vastly different lives. He walked down the steps, his silence the mark that he would not throw the homeless man from his steps, but instead would let him rest in the shadows where officers or others would not disturb him. 

Moving toward home, Finch let out a weary sigh. He was lonely, and tired, and more than just a little world weary. Seeing that others were just as burdened as him was not an encouraging thought. He had always hoped that no others shared the misery he experienced. The image of the man at the library’s doorstep filled him with empathy and kinship.

Eventually Finch made it home, weary and tired.

 

 

 

Bright sunshine burst through his blinds and Finch shook his head, eyes bleary. Pain laced through him and he let out a grunt of discomfort, body seeming to freeze at the onslaught of screaming nerve receptors no longer dulled by the drugs he’d taken the night before. Stiffly moving from bed, Finch began his morning ritual. The day had begun like most others.

It didn’t change until Finch was in line at the little bakery he usually frequented before going to the library. He began to ask for his usual order but stopped short, remembrance of those blue eyes making him change his mind.

“Actually, the usual and a bear claw if you would, Ms. Abruzzo, that and some coffee and a bottle of water,” Harold said to the young woman who he saw most mornings that he went to the library.

She smiled, and rung him up. Minutes later and Finch was making his way down the street with a cup of sencha green tea, a cup of coffee and several baked goods. Finch wasn’t sure what he was doing with it, but impulse had seized him this morning and with the monotony of his life, he wasn’t one to pass it up.

He was unsurprised though to find the steps vacated when he arrived there. His lips quirked as he thought on what to do with the items he had picked up so capriciously this morning. With a small niggling sense of hope, he made up his mind. Carefully, he limped over to the corner where the man had been the night before and placed the coffee, water, and baked items on the cold marble. He stiffly stood, pain more prominent in the cold weather, and then unlocked the library.

The day passed with languid ease, only a few people floating in to either rent a book or to work on some sort of non-technological work. Finch’s library did not have free wifi, his own desire to keep his space unpolluted from the spoiling effect of computers in every face instead of the soft smell and sound of leather bound paper. It seemed hypocritical for a computer scientist, however Finch liked separation between the two.

He spent his own time reading Thomas Hardy, gently weaving himself through the lugubrious passages which outlined the unhappy life of Jude Fawley. He closed up temporarily at one and left to get lunch. A short glance revealed that the coffee and baked goods were still there. He only allowed a small frown to grace his face for a fraction of a moment before he moved on, intent on visiting the small thai place he frequented. 

His lunch passed pleasantly, if quietly, and he soon began his slow walk back to the library.

Coming up the steps he saw the food gone, the area clean. A small smile adorned his face and he moved into the library. The evening passed quickly and no one entered. He read and organized the volumes. Four o’clock came and he stepped out, carefully locking the building. Slipping the keys into his pocket he saw that the corner was once again occupied. Finch smiled, not saying a word and quietly began walking down the steps. 

“Thank you.”

Finch turned at the hoarse voice and blinked in surprise. Blue eyes held his and he smiled slightly, giving a small nod. Finch continued down the steps.

 

 

 

John’s life after being betrayed by the C.I.A. had been pathetic. Jessica Arndt was dead, he had no family, and his government had tried to kill him. The world thought he was dead, and from his own point of view he was dead, worthless, and pointless. He was a bottle away from jumping in front of a subway train or jumping from a bridge.

It was getting into November and the cold managed to occupy his mind slightly more than the alcohol and the need to forget everything. Somehow he’d wandered around before winding up on the steps of some old fashioned building. 

He knew that at some point someone would notice him and they would tell someone else and somehow, end all, he would be either politely asked to leave the premises by the owner or, much more likely, be strong armed away by a police officer.

You can imagine his surprise when the stiffly limping and quirky little librarian merely looked at him with something better than pity, empathy. He was used to pity, but empathy was often only found among others in his same situation. Empathy and understanding far surpassed many gifts others thought to bring to someone homeless. Acceptance was the next step and John watched as the man went down the steps, courteously accepting his presence with a silent promise to leave him in peace.

John had left in the morning, not wanting to overstay his welcome, but something about the library had him coming back. He was shocked to see food on the ground. John ate voraciously. Whatever this was, it wasn’t pity.

 

 

 

It went like this for the next week, Finch bringing breakfast, and the homeless man saying a soft thank you.

The following monday it was bitterly cold. It seemed that the early November pointed to a miserable winter. Finch stayed in bed later than he usually would, body in enough pain to make him consider skipping his work at the library and to instead stay home. His mind wandered to what it would be like out in the cold as he weighed going out or staying and his mind then brought up the picture of the homeless man. He had no home, had nothing that Harold did except maybe a weight far greater on his shoulders and none of the resources that could allow him to bear the burden.

Finch went once again to the little bakery and ordered again, this time asking for something more savory as an extra to his usual. Giulia Abruzzo gave him a look, she was a pleasant looking young woman with a round race and dimples on both sides. She never treated Finch differently because of his limp or his strange manner.

“I wish someone would start bringing me breakfast,” She had a twinkle in her eye which drew a small amused smile out of Finch.

“That will be all, Ms. Abruzzo, thank you very much,” Finch said in response, taking the two small white bags and the tea. 

She just smiled more brightly. The little bakery was never quite full, something Finch greatly appreciated.

Stepping out into the cold, he shivered, plumping his coat around him so he looked akin to the small starlings who plumped their own feathers against the wind. He set off at a slow gait towards his library. He arrived and was slightly surprised to find his acquaintance tucked into the corner of the platformed entryway. He shuffled a little before moving over to the man. The man’s head was bent down and he was huddled as far into himself as possible.

Finch wasn’t sure if he should clear his throat or say something to catch the man’s attention. He settled on placing the hot drink and the bag a foot from the man and then heading into the library. He seated himself at the front desk, and due to the lack of things to do, opened Plutarch’s Moralia. He couldn’t focus though, his mind thinking about the biting wind and the man seated outside. Finally, after less than an hour of being unable to read and absolutely no one entering the library, Finch stood up and drew on his coat to step outside.

He let the door shut and took a few steps toward the figure on the ground. He was unsure of what to say, human interaction not exactly being his forte.

A moment passed and the man turned his head up, sharp blue eyes peering at Finch. For some reason, this gave Finch enough courage to speak.

“It’s quite cold out here,” Finch began. The wind burst by more strongly as if to punctuate his statement.

“And I am afraid that no matter the greatness of the literary figure, words cannot be manipulated to create an organic presence capable of speech, thought and general companionship, something described by Twain as a thing which, if absent, the true value of joy cannot be attained.”

There was a pause as Finch allowed his strangely convoluted and masked question of asking the man inside to follow through. There was no response though, just those bright blue eyes holding his gaze with an unreadable thoughtfulness. 

“Of course, books and their keepers could be said to be of the less fortuitous company one is bound to keep,” Finch said, feeling his stomach swoop with the thought that this had been a terrible idea.

He was proved wrong though as the man got up. They both stood awkwardly facing each other. Finally, Finch turned to the library and opened the door, the man followed. Once inside, Finch hesitated on what he should do. What was someone supposed to do upon inviting a transient human being which you know nothing about into your sanctuary? Finch decided that the best course of action was to sit down and resume his reading. When the man just stood there, Finch looked up with a tentative smile and spoke,

“You can sit, I don’t mind you eating,” he watched the homeless man hesitate before sitting down at a nearby table, “I am Harold by the way, Harold Finch.”

There was a pause. 

“John.” The man’s voice was hoarse from lack of use.

Finch said nothing and the library passed into a comfortable silence only broken by the sound of the small paper bags being opened and their contents eaten. Somehow the day passed quickly by and Finch found himself enthralled by his book. 

Four came and Finch reluctantly rose up. The man, John, Finch reminded himself, stood up as well and followed Finch out of the library.

Finch awkwardly turned to view the man, unsure of what social convention he should be following. The man went over to the corner and sank down. Finch glanced at him before heading out, somehow feeling guilty.

 

 

The man was a fool, an awkward, sweet, well-meaning little bird of a man, but a fool all the same. With his gregarious and round about way of speaking and those blue, tremulous eyes flitting back and forth nervously, little Harold Finch the librarian was everything John was not. John wasn’t sure if the man was aware of what John was, of the monster that he had become. 

He didn’t want to harm anyone else and his mind told him to leave the little bird before harm would befall him. He had allowed his loneliness to draw him back to the steps each day where he got food but most fulfilling of all a kind, if awkwardly nervous, smile. Then he had been weak enough to accept the man’s invitation into his library. It was old, and soft, warmth seeping into him, whether from the kindness or the heating he hadn’t been sure. 

John stepped out and felt the cold in the air and the pain in his heart. He wasn’t going to return.

 

 

The next day it snowed. Finch went to the library but found that his acquaintance had disappeared. Winter continued on and he did not reappear. Soon the man with the blue eyes with the ambiguous name of John quickly passed to the back of Finch’s mind. The days at the library lulled by and Finch spent his time focusing on surviving the pain brought on by the cold.

Spring came early, march setting in with swift wind and sparks of bright green which coexisted with the cement and asphalt of the city. Finch attended an opera, the Italian Lucia Di Lammermoor, a beautiful rendition of one of Sir Walter Scott’s works. For some reason though, as it always was, Finch felt empty and hollow. He was a wearied reed, dried by time and scraped thin by the constant sorrows of life. It was easy to get lost.


	2. Three Swallow Tattoos

“I do not know which to prefer,  
The beauty of inflections  
Or the beauty of innuendos,  
The blackbird whistling  
Or just after.”

-Wallace Stevens, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

 

 

He stayed late at the library one night, much later than usual as he had gotten in a small collection of first editions. He had spent hours inspecting them before then preparing a place for them in the library. By the time he finished he was surprised to find that it was after ten o’clock. Finch pulled on his coat and quickly stepped outside. He locked the library and turned to look out on the street. It was dark and he frowned, pondering if he should consider getting a cab. He always walked though and habit overcame worry.

He didn’t make it a block before a dark figure stepped out in front of him. They had a hood drawn up and Finch noted with an unpleasant turn of his stomach the knife in the man’s hand. Finch stopped, and then noticed another man behind him. Fear skittered through him and he realized, with a unattached sense, just how compromising the situation was.

The man behind him seized him, and yanked him mercilessly toward the alleyway they had stopped him by. Finch couldn’t do much more than let them manhandle him. They slammed him up against the wall and he gasped in pain as it aggravated his old injury.

Without even making a demand, one of them smashed him across the face with the handle of the knife. Finch fell, head spinning and something warm and liquid coming from his nose. The way he fell caused him to land on his bad leg and he couldn’t help the cry of pain that it wrenched out of him. Finch realized that he was probably going to die in this alley, a most ignominious ending to his pathetic life.

A third man had stepped into the alley and was talking, the patronizing tone amused and at odds with the serious situation. Finch was still in pain, and still dizzy from the hit. His glasses had been knocked off and he couldn’t see much.

He heard the men shout and then the sound of fighting. Finch didn’t look up. The sound ended abruptly and Finch blinked as a blurry figure approached. They crouched down and came into focus. Finch blinked, surprised to see a homeless man crouching by him, a look of worry on the man’s face. Sharp blue eyes held his and he was struck by the realization that this was the man who had been on his steps.

“Are you alright?” A warm, even tone came out.

Finch replied by throwing up, the mixture of pain, his spinning head, and the stench of cheap alcohol, amongst other things, coming from his savior, too much for him to handle.

“I guess that answers that question,” John said to himself.

Finch was surprised by the gentle hands which guided him up and helped his trembling body to stand.

“I hope you like St. Mary’s okay, because that’s closest,” John said softly.

Finch felt a desperate aversion rise in him at the mention of a hospital. There were so many memories, so many things he wanted to forget. He couldn’t go back there.

He shook his head, “No hospital.”

John turned, gazing at him with an indiscernible look. Finch felt his desperation rise.

“Please,” he added, emotion unguarded by the pain he was in.

Those blue eyes softened. There was a moment of hesitation.

“Where can you get fixed up?”

Finch tried to think, but the only place he thought of as home was the library. However, it was ill-equipped for what he needed.

“My apartment, it’s a few blocks down,” Finch said.

John nodded. They began walking, Finch at first trying to not lean on the man but his pain such that he ended up having his weight nearly completely supported by the homeless man.

When they arrived at the modest apartment, Finch tried to fumble in his pockets for keys. He drew them out and dropped them from how badly his hands were shaking. He started to dip painfully down to get them but John beat him to it, a firm hand keeping him standing straight. The apartment door swung open and John gently ushered Finch in. Finch turned on the light but his mind was on the pain and how tired he was so he struggled for a few moments to find it. He turned to his surprise hero.

“I-I am so sorry, this wasn’t-it-it,” Finch stuttered out, looking in the general direction of John.

His glasses were still in the alley, Finch felt completely lost and he was still shaking. John was moving him toward the couch. Finch didn’t fight, allowing himself to be sat down. John disappeared and Finch stayed there, trying to pull himself together. John re-appeared several minutes later. Finch felt something pressed into his hands. The relief that spread through him at realizing they were his back-up glasses was immense.

“I’m sorry, I had to snoop around a bit,” John said in a soft, apologetic voice.

Harold shoved his glasses on and looked up at John, seeing him clearly for the first time that night.

“No, I-I am immensely grateful, I don’t know what would have happened-” Harold broke off, mind thinking of exactly what could have happened.

Harold looked up at John, feeling extremely vulnerable and very, very grateful.

 

 

 

 

John hadn’t meant to return to the library, not really. He had passed his time near a shelter that offered something warmer during the winter, and the thought of his new friend at that library kept him from thinking too much about how little his life was worth and of how many people deserved to see him dead.

He’d returned, but he hadn’t approached, merely watching the librarian come and go from the workplace. It had disturbed him when Harold Finch, as the little bird had introduced himself, did not emerge from the library at four and instead stepped out at ten that night. He’d followed, and then had reacted before he could stop himself because he couldn’t see the man hurt.

Now though, he was in the uncomfortable predicament of being in the man’s home.

“You didn’t have to help,” Harold said, looking at John.

There was silence as John weighed that in his mind.

“I did,” John replied.

Not another innocent death on his hands, not again. Especially not this man’s. Harold frowned as if he didn’t understand completely. It was awkward for a few moments before John turned to head back to the kitchen. With permanent injuries like Harold’s, painkillers were a must and John had no doubt that they were somewhere in easy reach.

His search in the bathroom revealed a bottle of vicodin. As he shut the medicine cabinet he caught his image in the looking glass. His beard was long and untended, his hair disgusting. John blinked, for the first time in a long time he actually cared about how he looked.

He shook his head and grabbed a towel, wetting it with warm water. Moving out of the bathroom, he went back into the living room where he had placed Harold. The librarian was still there, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. When John sat down next to him, Harold startled.

“Oh, I, I thought you left,” Harold said, confusion evident on his face.

“Not until you’ve been fixed up, remember?” John said.

Harold looked dazedly back at him, and John got the feeling that Mr. Finch had a concussion. The man should be at a hospital, staying overnight at the least. Someone needed to be with him, at least until tomorrow.

John handed Harold a Vicodin and a glass of water.

“Do you have someone I can call?” John asked.

He wasn’t leaving the man here by himself, that was for sure. He just needed to get someone else here.

“Someone?” Harold repeated, looking at John in complete confusion.

Definitely a concussion, only a slight one though, and the adrenaline rush had probably worn off so Harold would soon crash. John nodded. Harold appeared to be thinking, he shook his head, features becoming sorrowful.

“No,” he whispered.

John felt whatever human conscience he had left in him twinge at that.

“No co-workers you trust?” John regretted it as soon as he said it. It was quite obvious that Harold worked alone in his library.

Harold shook his head again.

“You shouldn’t be left alone,” John started.

“No hospital,” Harold interrupted, voice desperate. He was staring up pleadingly at John.

There was a pause.

“No hospital,” John agreed, “I promise.”

It was quiet for a bit. Harold, upon having gotten John’s promise, had turned his eyes to the floor with shame.

“I’m sorry, for all of this, it isn’t your problem,” Harold said quietly.

John’s mouth crooked in a small, melancholy smile, “Neither was mine.”

John’s comment wasn’t barbed to indict Finch's unintentional hypocrisy, just gentle. Harold digested that before he turned his attention to the glass in his hand.

“You can’t be left alone,” John said.

Harold looked up, noting the amendment with some trepidation.

“I hope you don’t mind company,” John said, voice lilting as he tried to make it a jest.

It fell flat but Harold’s mouth still quirked for a second into a small, hesitant smile.

“Please use the amenities then, I have a guest bedroom that should offer everything,” Harold replied earnestly.

John gave a small nod.

Harold couldn’t have been sure how the evening turned out how it did. But it ended with him in bed, feeling dazed from the drugs and the unfortunate incident while his friend, John, slept in the room next door. For some reason, he felt much safer knowing someone else, for the first time in quite a long time, was with him. He slept peacefully.

When Harold woke up, pain surrounded him. His head was pounding and his back and leg were throbbing. Carefully, he hoisted himself from his bed and made his way to the bathroom, quickly taking just enough pain medication to stave off his pain. Harold hated the medication and his dependency on it, and he despised how muddled it made him feel. Today though was not a day which he could skip it.

Why though, did he feel so awful? The day before came back to him and Finch wondered if his rescuer was still here. This proved correct as he realized that the smell of cooking was in the air. He followed it to the kitchen where his guest was concocting something.  
Harold stood there as John turned around. John had cleaned up, his face clean-shaven and his clothing having been washed overnight. His hair was cut, not professional, but decent. The homeless man from November and even last night had been transformed into a handsome knight. Relatively that is; the baggy clothing, though now clean, wasn’t particularly flattering.

“Good morning,” John greeted.

“Good morning,” Harold replied, feeling very uncomfortable.

He hadn’t shared space with anyone in a very long time. There was an awkward moment of silence before John went to one of the pans and began setting to work. Harold shifted on his feet and immediately regretted it as his leg and hip screamed abuse. Harold stumbled a little and moved to the table. He caught John’s gaze lingering on him, concern showing on his face. Harold looked down at the table and continued on working his way through the pain.

Breakfast was served quickly and Harold found himself in the uncomfortable position of eating breakfast with someone he didn’t know. Harold ate the food, glancing up at his guest nervously. He was indebted to this man. John had swooped in and saved him, an old cripple with no purpose and no worth to the world. What made someone like that risk their lives.

They had only been eating a few minutes when Harold set down the fork and looked up at his guest.

“I know this situation isn’t ideal,” Harold began.

He stopped though, struggling to find words.

“Don’t worry,” John said, a small, mirthless smile on his face, “I’ll leave, I won’t bother you.”

Harold’s head snapped up and he looked in confusion and alarm at John.

“That isn’t what I meant,” Harold said quickly, glancing between his breakfast and John.

“I meant to apologize,” Harold said, “You could have been hurt. I also wanted to thank you, I probably would have met an unfortunate end in that alley.”

Both of them had stopped eating and it was quiet in the apartment. John hadn’t replied and Finch looked down at his omelette, brain churning. He wanted to do something to repay John, anything.

“This may seem rather strange, but, I was wondering, I don’t reach the top shelves very well, and unfortunately the moving men are horribly indelicate with their handling of the books I get in. As you’ve seen, some help wouldn’t go amiss at my library.”

John’s eyes sparked with amusement and a smile came on his face, the blank look from before gone. Harold appreciated it, the strange contrast in dullness and sharpness on the man’s face was unnerving. No one should look so lifeless.

“Are you offering me a job?” John asked incredulously.

Harold nodded, “Yes, I am, you’ve done extraordinarily well in the interview process, I am afraid though that I am missing you full name.”

“It’s John Reese,” he said, another smile twitching in the corner of his mouth at Finch’s joke.


	3. Chapter 3

“O Vespering bird, how do you know,  
How do you know?”  
-Thomas Hardy, The Year’s Awakening

 

“There would be an income of course, and full coverage.”

Harold looked so earnest. John felt guilt eating away at him. He couldn’t insert himself into this man’s life. It wouldn’t be healthy. Then again, John wasn’t exactly living a healthy lifestyle. But this wasn’t about him, it was about Harold Finch. Said man was looking expectantly at him, waiting for an answer. John felt an answer slipping out of him before he could rationalize his choice.

“I always wanted to read the classics.”

Harold blinked before a small smile came onto his face.

“I can, of course, offer you a stipend until you can begin work,” Harold offered up.

John nodded. They continued breakfast again, however Harold felt the night before catching up with him and the pain came back along with the exhaustion. John noticed the man’s ever tensing shoulders and the glazed look of pain in his eyes. John wasn’t sure if he should say something, but Harold seemed to come to the conclusion himself.

“I am afraid I am not quite myself. I haven’t recovered fully from last night,” Harold said, not having finished his plate but looking like he was ready to pass out.

“Let me get some sort of financial situation in place for you as an employee. I can,” Harold blinked his eyes back into focus, “I can at least give you the resources to situate yourself.”

Harold clenched his eyes shut then, attempting to rally himself. A hand landed softly on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to do that immediately Finch, it can wait, you should rest some more,” John prompted softly.

“Quite,” Harold murmured out as he was steered from the dining room and into his bedroom.

He barely registered the covers being pulled back and his body gently guided between the covers.

 

Harold was beginning to feel a fool, waking up now for the second time to realize he had been put there like a child by a man he did not know so very well. He had little patience for his own physical shortcomings and he could only imagine the man’s own feelings. It felt a little rushed, asking John Reese, previously a homeless vagabond and now assistant librarian, to be so completely absorbed into Harold’s life. It was frightening while also exhilarating. Harold’s greatest excitement in life was shelving new books. Now he was inviting a stranger into his home and more importantly into his life.

“You’re awake,” John’s voice was soft and calm and so very level.

Harold looked up, face warm with embarrassment.

“Yes, yes I believe I am.”

John’s lips twitched and the corner of his eyes crinkled to make the blues of them dance with mirth. Harold again felt a little flustered, he felt much more at home when he was put together.

“Feeling better?” John asked, his teasing gaze already relaxed into a pleasantly benign one.

Harold considered himself. He gave a slight nod.

“You’ve the Hippocratic touch,” Harold jested.

John said nothing, but he leaned back in the chair he’d brought into the room. Harold couldn’t recall when he’d done that.

“It’s just past lunch, I hope you don’t mind I raided your fridge.”

John looked sheepish, but there was a slight undercurrent of genuine worry, as if he feared he’d crossed a line. Harold vigorously reassured him that it was indeed, fine, more so welcome. Harold was starting to sense that though John was composed and nigh salaciously calm and amusing, he was also very careful of disturbing whatever balance they’d attained. Harold wasn’t the only one dealing with someone they didn’t know.

They moved back to the dining room and Harold had a small meal.

“I may have some clothing more suited for you,” Harold suggested, biting genteely into the sandwich John had prepared.

John looked up at Harold and Harold could read the keen curiosity, though politely held at bay.

“I’ve a nephew, he visits on occasion, very rare occasion now, and he’s about your size. I doubt he’ll miss any of it.”

John almost blushed, or at least Harold thought he did. It was easier to read the man before him, if just a little, when his face was clean shaved and his hair short and kept away from his eyes. At least it was a much more welcoming look. The desperation seemed to be hidden away with more ease.

“You’ve already done so much,” John started.

Harold waved a hand.

“Must we sally our trophies of deeds done, I’m afraid you’ll find yourself always higher on the scale. Saving a person’s life compares little indeed to the meager offering of second hand clothing that may or may not be accommodating.”

John’s lips minutely turned up again, the corner of his eyes creasing, that quickly familiar gleam in his eyes rising, Harold was glad to bring some levity to the table.

“Come, I’m sure I know just where it is. I can’t have my assistant looking like he belongs elsewhere than a library.”

The pleasant amusement settled in to stay on John’s features and Harold was glad of it. John followed Harold into the spare room where Harold opened the closet. Hanging in a lonely corner were maybe ten items or so.

“Again, I’m afraid it isn’t much, though luck would have it, or depending on your preferences would not have it, I had the pleasure of choosing the articles. Unfortunately my nephew’s taste is rather, undeveloped.”

John’s eyes ran appraisingly over the pieces and he gave a nod.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Harold smiled, before turning and walking from the room to give John privacy to change.

 

 

John felt uncomfortable. The situation was too calm, too easy, too, well, perfect. Fate didn’t bestow such gifts upon someone like himself. The little bird was keeping him in his home and now he was offering him clothing.

Carefully, John examined the items of clothing hanging up. All were conservative, but tasteful items, easily wearable by a young man but not unsuited to someone of John’s age. He chose out jeans which were a size too big in the waist but the right length, and then a plain t-shirt and pullover sweater. There were shoes, which by chance were half a size away from his. They were the only items a little juvenile for his looks.

Changed, he moved out of the room.

Harold was at the table, papers spread out and financial documents at the ready. John was amused and a little surprised to see the solemnity and the formality which Harold was applying to the situation.

John carefully seated himself at the table.

“I’ve partially drawn up a paytable, in accordance with the work you’ll be doing and the necessary compensation.”

Harold held out a rough sketch of John’s future earnings. John raised a brow, more than a little surprised by the generosity of the figure. He said nothing, merely glanced at Harold with a slight scepticism.

“You are welcome to stay here, as long as you need or like. And this-” Harold held out a check that was already signed and filled out. “Is two weeks advanced pay. I want to ensure I keep you, I’m sure you’ve a pool of competing employers.”

John chuckled, smiling wryly as he looked up to meet Harold’s semi-serious gaze. John was nearly speechless.

“This, this is too much,” he said frankly, knowing he couldn’t accept the generosity.

Harold shook his head.

“Nonsense,” he said quickly.

“You barely know me, Harold, you shouldn’t be trusting me so much. I mean-” John stopped short, meeting the determined and shrewd gaze of the man before him.

It was silent a moment.

“Believe me, Mr. Reese, I am a judicious man, a practical homebody who reads books and moves slowly and chooses slowly. I have an absolute faith in your character, at least in this matter.”

Harold was looking very seriously at John, those sharp, crystal clear blue eyes every bit sincere. John felt his eyes water a moment, a sudden flood of emotion causing him to cast his eyes away. It had been a long time since anyone had placed such faith in him, such trust.

“Now, I must tell you that I have a high standard in professional attire. So I expect you to be wardrobed properly. Tomorrow we will start our work.”

John’s small, slight smile returned.

“Of course.”

 

 

Harold gave John the spare key and begged pardon for his inability to accompany John. It was a wiser choice John felt, his own leg twitching in sympathy at the stiff and pained posture Harold held. He’d had a few awkward moments trying to explain to Harold that it had been a while since he’d owned a bank account to deposit a check into. Harold had quickly offered his card and promised to clear it up.

John was starting to wonder about Harold and his money, for a librarian he seemed to live quite comfortably and obviously felt at ease financially, enough so to be quite liberal in his generosity.

John wandered into a department store and began browsing. His mind was half on the shopping, the other half on this sudden change of fate. He’d found the little bird by chance, but this generosity, the money, the quick and absolute trust, either Harold Finch was an utter fool or he had ulterior motives. No one was that naive, that kindly. John wasn’t some white knight, he was a bitter stained alcoholic and it seemed impossible for any of this to be happening without some dark reason.

John’s face became weighed down. No, he wasn’t trusting the little bird. Not yet. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t play along, for now at least. John picked up a soft blue button up, the fabric crisp against his hand. Yes, he would play for now.

 

 

John returned to the top floor apartment, dressed casually in a few of the spare items he’d purchased. It was evening.

Harold had prepared a simple dinner and it was waiting for John. There was a note apologizing for his absence and when John silently slipped into the room he saw the man in bed, fast asleep. John wondered at the unfathomable trust before returning to the dining room. He ate, and then he retired to the guest room which Harold had given him.

 

 

John awoke as soon as he heard noise. Glancing at the bedside clock he noted the time and got up. It was just past seven in the morning. He didn’t know Harold’s schedule precisely, but he did know that the library opened at eight, the week he’d spent on the steps and the time he’d spent watching Harold had revealed that to him. He quickly showered and shaved, before then dressing.

He came out to find Harold already completely dressed, wrapping himself up in layers of clothing. John looked on appraisingly. It was still chilly despite the spring season, but not nearly as cold as the winter. John merely wore the pullover sweater from the day before.

“Are you ready Mr. Reese?” Harold asked, looking brightly at John.

John inclined his head and the two headed out.

Harold lead them out onto the street and they walked side by side, comfortably silent. John wanted to ask questions, about Harold Finch, about his life, about everything. Manners kept him silent. Finch seemed to just enjoy the walk though, eyes constantly hovering over anything green. John was just going to have to learn by watching the man.

They arrived at a small bakery, an elderly woman at the cashier and the aroma of renella, pane siciliano, filone and a myriad other breads and pastries. Finch greeted the woman by her first name, Chiara, and politely ordered a sencha green tea and some pastry. John followed suit, a black coffee and the same pastry.

They stepped out and continued on their way to the library. John watched Harold closely the entire time, trying to glean what he could from the man’s daily schedule. Nothing diabolical, if anything quaint and dangerously habitual.

Harold went up the steps a bit stiffly, opened the doors and the two made their way in. The library was bitterly cold and the first thing Harold did was turn on the heater. Task accomplished he showed John behind the desk.

“My library isn’t usual,” he started, eyes casting about. “I have a small collection of rare books and I collect specific works. Most of my patrons are research students or enthusiasts. Though I do have those few who come for simple pleasure.”

Harold looked happy, pleased; eyes warm with a small seed of passion. John found it a complimentary look. 

“I also circulate some of my works with other libraries of repute, they in exchange lend me copies of their works. I catalog and shelve them and when the time comes, unshelve them and send them on. It’s the more physical side which I need your help with.”

John gave a nod.

Harold showed him to the back room and showed John a list of books he was passing on to another library. He showed him where he wanted them stored and then sent him on his way.

Strangely enough John found the work pleasant, the library was well cared for and instead of a smell of must and mold it was just sweet paper. Harold stayed at the front desk. A few patrons came in, some research students who immediately went to work with a quiet vigour. John found himself brushing by Harold every so often, a soft comment which always made Harold’s lips raise into a small amused smile.

They had lunch at a little cafe nearby, Harold telling John about the next shipment of books in. They were still a little awkward around each other, but it was still pleasant.

When the day at the library came to a close, John and Harold walked side by side back to the apartment. John couldn’t help but be surprised by how good of a day it had been.


End file.
